Lost Christmas. The End.

I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to say that I had been wandering the corridors of sleep. I wanted to say that there was a ghost in my life.

“If I’m honest, I would say that life is treating me badly.” That’s what I wanted to say.

The morning had started badly. Indeed, the morning had really only been a continuation of the previous day. All days ran into one. And all days ran out like sand or seas.

I had not slept that night. I had a memory of a body at my side, some warmth that may have provided comfort, another in a place of isolation. In my torment, I reached out to the nothing that was not there. Nights are vacant and rooms are vast. All life empties into the ever-long hours of the night. Dreams come and turn to shadow. The certainty of…